A Knife In the Dark
by Celrena
Summary: Events at Weathertop happen a little differently and threaten to change the fate of Middle-earth forever. Strider attempts to lead the Hobbits safely through the Wilds, all the while battling the newly awoken darkness in his own heart. Will he succumb?
1. Prologue: From Shadows

_**A Knife in the Dark**_

**Disclaimer**: All of Tolkien's creations belong to the magical realm of Middle Earth and to the great author's estate. They do not belong to me.

**Please Take Note**: As I'm sure you can tell, this is the first fanfic I've posted; however, I've been lurking on the site for a very long time, and I know how most things work. On the subject of reviews, I would like you to leave one if it suits you, but I won't force them out of you. Please be polite, because I can learn nothing from flames; constructive criticism, on the other hand, would be wonderful. Secondly, I'm looking for a beta reader who would be interested in helping me work on spelling and grammar- I have a tendency to forget words when I get an idea, which really isn't much good to anyone. If anyone is interested, please send me a message. Finally, I try to keep all of my facts in order unless otherwise stated, so if something jumps out at you with a red flag, please let me know.

**On the Note of Originality**: I found out after I was three or four chapters into this story that this idea had already been used. I pride myself on originality, and in no way did I attempt to steal something that did not belong to me. If the author (who I have messaged) does have a problem with this story, I will immediately take it down (with no hard feelings).

Okay, thank you for reading my lengthy introduction. I hope you enjoy the story.

Prologue: From Shadows

It was dark; but nighttime was normally so. Many hours had passed since the shadows had been transformed from jagged shapes into a flawless blanket, and indeed _Earendil_ could even be seen peeking out from behind various wisps of cloud. The air was cool enough to chill, but nothing a warm fire couldn't combat in an instant. However, as fires were potentially hazardous in these dark times, most travelers would simply accept the cold rather than risk exposure.

Far beneath the stars and moon, a young man with an aged spirit sat upon a hill top, sucking thoughtfully on his pipe. Darkness was a curious thing, he decided. It was similar to himself in many ways; or at least, to his _current _self, that was. Lately, he had taken to changing his identity as quickly as his clothes; although, by his normal standards, this wasn't _nearly_ often enough for either. Still, he knew that while Estel Elrondion of Rivendell preferred the daylight, and Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was impartial, darkness suited Strider the Ranger just fine. And luckily, that was who he had chosen to be this week.

Just as night and day were opposite parts of a whole, Strider, Estel and Aragorn were part of the many yins and yangs of this particular man's identity. Strider, essentially, _was_ the darkness; calculating, cold and decidedly foul as a particular Hobbit had recently put it. Not particularly malevolent or merciful, Strider, like the darkness, could be a curse or blessing depending on one's point of view. Still, he made no apologies; Middle Earth being so wrought with peril that indeed, darkness was the only way to survive these days.

The man inhaled the fumes deeply, and looked briefly to the imposing form of Weathertop, less than half a league away. It had been the safest place to leave his companions, Strider had decided several hours ago. The Hobbits were incredibly endearing, but no one could disagree that they had a certain knack for attracting trouble. He hoped that _Amon Sul_, what with it's considerably large boulders and all, would protect the Hobbits from their usual (albeit unintentional) mischief as well as from the perils of Arnor.

Closing his clear, gray eyes, Strider eavesdropped easily on the lively conversation nearby, a simple feat for one who'd spent many years living amongst the Elves (one could argue, of course, that it was in fact Estel, not Strider who had lived his early life amongst the Firstborn. The Ranger, on the other hand, preferred to overlook such details because frankly, he was much too exhausted from a day of leading four dainty Hobbits through the Wilds to care). Strider picked out the words 'tomato', 'sausage' and 'nice, crispy bacon' before he quickly abandoned interest; if he had learned anything from the past few months he'd spent patrolling the Shire, he knew that once a Hobbit began talking about food, the topic was very unlikely to change for some time.

That was, of course, until he realized that in order to _have_ sausages and 'nice, crispy bacon', the Hobbits required a means to _cook_ it. And, in order to _cook_ something, one generally required a _fire_. And a fire, which he had credited the Hobbits with enough sanity to decide against, would attract others of a more unsavory nature (particularly the demons they were running _from)_.

Strider's suspicions were confirmed moments later by two very different but easily recognizable screeches. One was a cry, quite easily discerned. "Put it out, you fools!" the Ringbearer squeaked, and was followed by the sound of very large feet stomping against a very hard ground. The second voice, however, was a mix between a hiss and a shriek, and was a reason for far more concern. Jumping to his feet in a quick, practiced motion, Strider launched himself forward, and prayed to the Valar that he would reach the Hobbits in time.

:O:

Leaving all thoughts of Estel, Aragorn and darkness behind him, Strider dashed along the plains, fueled by a mixture of adrenaline and anxiety. Running a calloused hand over the handle of his sword, he pulled the blade free in a fluid movement, all the while quickening his pace. Already he could see the dark, cloaked shapes of the Nazgul moving soundlessly along the ground and fading into ruins of _Amon Sul_, where they sought their undeniably weak prey.

Strider leapt along the protruding rocks with a feline-like grace, and arrived at the scene just in time to hear the dull clank of metal hitting rock. _A Hobbit has just dropped his sword_, the Ranger realized, and had anyone been looking, they would have noticed his eyes widening in stupefied disbelief. Either way, he had little time to ponder this new development as one of the Ringwraiths approached the fallen Hobbit, his blade poised and his intent deadly.

With a roar, the Ranger barreled forward, and successfully distracted the Nazgul from the Halfling, which he now recognized to be the Ringbearer, Frodo. A loud clang later, and blade crossed blade in a deadly dance. With wild but calculated swings, Strider managed to nick his opponent several times, until the great cloaked beast retreated from the frightened Hobbit. There was little time for relief, however; within moments the remaining four Ringwraiths fell upon the Ranger with powerful swings.

"Run, Frodo!" Strider commanded, parrying a sharp stab meant to cleave his heart in two. "You must take the others and flee! Flee to Rivendell!" From the corners of his eyes, Strider watched as the Hobbits disappeared into the darkness, throwing frantic glances at their protector from over their plump shoulders.

Metal struck metal time and time again, but neither party gained any advantage. Strider was by far the better swordsman, but the Nazgul countered him with sheer numbers; whenever one dark creature felt the pierce of the Ranger's blade, another arrived to take its place. Gradually, the Ranger felt himself being forced towards a large pile of boulders, which at one point must have been part of a wall. It was a clever maneuver, Strider acknowledged, as he narrowly avoided a thrust to his thigh; in close quarters, he would be unable to drive or parry with total freedom.

A misstep backwards sent the Ranger stumbling over a gnarled tree branch. With a quick step, he righted his balance almost immediately, but he felt something small fall from his left pocket. Dimly he noted that his pipe must have fallen from within the confines of his cloak, but now was really not the time to bend down and pick it up. He _was_ willing to kill for pipeweed, but not really prepared to die for it.

The stone wall was very close now, and the Ringwraiths began to press their advantage. Each stroke was powered with sheer strength, causing Strider's arms to shake with each block. He was slowly being herded into a corner, a bind from which he would be unable to escape. Furrowing his eyebrows in concentration, he looked for a possible way to extricate himself from his current predicament. Suddenly, he flung his lean body against the rocks and rebounded with such force that he was shot towards his enemies with an alarming speed. Taken by surprise, the nearest Nazgul hesitated for a moment, and the dark Ranger slipped by him. Then, Strider launched his greatest assault.

Stepping onto a large dais, he attacked his opponents with an incredible force, for he was no longer confined by the previously tight quarters. His speed and strength were terrifying to behold, and the Ringwraiths quickly fell back with outraged shrieks. His blade was almost invisible, mere glints of moonlight in the darkness. The Nazgul began to retreat, until eventually, one disappeared altogether.

The sudden smell of burning wood then caught Strider's attention for a fraction of a second; the fading embers of his pipe had lit one of the many branches littering the floor aflame. With a dramatic somersault, he dove to the ground and scooped up the makeshift torch. It was the perfect tool, for all creatures of darkness despised the light and heat. Armed with a new weapon, he swung the flaming branch around, and scattered the terrified Nazgul in every direction. Loud wails of pain echoed throughout the Watchtower as one by one, the Nazgul were engulfed by the darkness to which they fled.

Suddenly, from behind, Strider felt a bone-chilling cold sweep through his shoulder, followed by a overwhelming wave of pain. With a loud gasp, Strider's sword hand flew to his left shoulder, mere inches above his heart. Vaguely, he heard his sword hit the ground, and he grimaced at the irony of the situation. Hadn't he just been mentally chastising the Ringbearer for a similar action? However, he had no more time to think, for the evil blade was then ripped free. The unexpected jolt sent the Ranger reeling, as the earth and sky began to trade places. Dropping his torch as well, he fell to his knees, and his mouth twisted in a soundless scream.

Despite the sheer agony now pulsing through his body, the victorious hissing above him made Strider's blood boil. He would be damned if that foul creature took him while losing _nothing_. No, he was damned already; therefore he was the one with nothing to lose. Grappling for the still flaming torch mere inches from his hand, he flung the burning branch towards the cloaked figure with all of his strength. The satisfying sound of wood connecting with a body sounded in the night, followed by a screech of rage.

His black cloak aflame, the Nazgul dropped his blade and fled haphazardly from the Watchtower to join his kin, which were undoubtedly still lurking nearby. _Everyone is losing their swords tonight,_ Strider noted sarcastically.With a smug smile that did not quite reach his pain filled eyes, Strider examined the fallen blade with an almost detached interest. About an eighth from the point was missing, he noticed, meaning that a small fragment of the Morgul Blade had been lost-

Oh sweet Valar. _Lost._ That meant that a piece of that accursed blade was still _within _him. The fact had taken an abnormal amount of time to register. However, now that it _had_, Strider had finally grasped the severity of his condition. Several nights ago, he had told the Hobbits the tale of the Nazgul, and how they came into being. _Great Kings of Men, who had fallen into darkness, _had been his exact words. Collapsing into a shivering heap, the injured man, strangely, felt whole for the first time in decades; none of his identities could be extracted from the other, as they were all united by a common emotion. Estel of Rivendell, Aragorn the Heir of Isildur and Strider, Ranger of the North all felt true fear as the dark fragment pulsed angrily beneath their skin.

.End of Prologue.


	2. Chapter One: Black Blood

_**A Knife In the Dark**_

**Please Take Note: **Happily, this story will continue to be updated, as I have full consent from Imaginigma to continue on with it (in case you were wondering, her fic is entitled **_What If Weathertop_**). Thank you very much :) Also, just so everyone knows, I plan to update once or twice a week depending on what I have done. However, because I'm going to be adding more stories in the very near future, this may slow me down. And as always, I'm still looking for a **beta reader** who can help me sort through my grammar and offer second opinions on plotlines. Oh, and on the note of Strider's foster family; I'm going with the common assumption that he was raised as a son of Elrond, and as a brother to the twins Elladan and Elrohir.

Finally, many thanks to _Calenlass, Ainu Laire, sassafras224_, _SiriusBlackFan2_, _Eriadne_ and _Anonymousfog_ for your kind reviews and input.

Chapter One: Black Blood

The fallen Ranger felt as though a gigantic hand was slowly crushing his lungs into pulp; indeed, it was becoming nearly impossible to breathe. Whether this new development stemmed from the most-likely-to-be mortal wound mere inches above his heart or the sheer terror he felt quelling up inside, Strider did not know. What he did know, however, was that he was growing increasingly cold, and lying on the frigid stone tiles of a once splendid Watchtower was doing very little good.

Mentally steeling himself for what torture he knew awaited him, Strider slowly rose to his knees. Almost immediately, wave upon wave of incredible agony threatened to immobilize him, and he collapsed into a heap of intense shivers. _Son of a Balrog_, he cursed inwardly, inhaling deeply to soothe his frazzled nerves. It did little good, but he chose to focus more on the issue at hand: standing. He could not _roll _all the way to Imladris; and he shuddered to think of how his foster family would react should he arrive crawling. There was nothing for it then; he would have to get up.

Hauling himself back up to his knees, he uttered a small word of thanks to the few deities he could remember for allowing him to support his own weight. As expected however, the pain flared up again, and almost threatened to throw him back to the ground. Now _cursing_ the few deities he remembered, he finally allowed his glazed, silver eyes to dart around the dais upon which he kneeled, to look for any sign of his companions, or worse, his dark attackers. A cursory scan revealed nothing, and Strider allowed himself a grateful sigh. It appeared that, for once, the Hobbits had heeded his words and fled the battlefield.

A soft sneeze from his right caused the sigh to catch in his throat and morph into a groan of frustration, directed more towards himself than to the Hobbits. It suddenly became clear to the Ranger, and had many any use of his fifty or so years of wilderness training at _all_, he should have immediately noticed the rounded outlines of four, very terrified Halflings crouching behind various collections of small rocks and reeds. Good gracious, had his senses already begun to fail him?

A unpleasant jolt shot through his spine to accompany the incessant throbbing of his shoulder, as Strider painfully became aware of the fact that his vision was most certainly hindered. While the shapes themselves were still sharp, he realized that the darkness had already begun to drain his world of colour. While night time brought little more than shades of black, he knew that once the sun rose, the vibrant shades he had grown to love in his eighty-six years would be nothing but pale imitations of their former glory; if they were not already lost to him.

"You may come out now," Strider stated quietly, to distract himself from his troubling thoughts. He winced as he heard the weakened quaver of his own voice. Yet, it would do no good to dwell on things he could not, for the moment, change. "I thought I ordered you to 'run'," he admonished in a mix of exasperation and amusement.

It was odd to see his little companions at eye level, Strider noted, as Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin slunk into sight, brushing dirt and grass from their curly heads. Shuffling their abnormally large feet sheepishly, the four Hobbits approached the kneeling Ranger with a mixture of curiosity and worry. "Why, we did run," Pippin pointed out innocently, in his usual attempts to quell anxiety with humor, "right into the bushes!"

"So you did; but, I sincerely doubt you'll find Rivendell hidden amongst the shrubbery. I _did _ask you to flee to Rivendell, did I not?" Strider added, the reprimand softened by his calm, soothing tone. The little ones were quaking from fear; he could feel the vibrations through the ground. Putting aside his own pain, his smiled tiredly in reassurance. "The Ring is safe; the Nazgul failed to acquire it. Let that knowledge put your hearts at ease, if nothing else."

The camp was covered in a blanket of tense silence as the four Hobbits regarded their fallen companion with anything _but _ease. "M-Mister Strider?" Sam asked worriedly, while licking his chapped lips with a dry tongue. "W-What happened? We heard you scream, and saw the big Ringwraith s-stab you with…" he trailed off, unsure of _what_ exactly the Ranger was stabbed with.

Strider's ego shuddered when the Hobbit uttered the word 'scream'; he had not meant to show his weakness so spectacularly to the Nazgul. In fact, he had not even been aware that he _had _screamed. However, if the black beasts knew that the protector was damaged, they would not be as wary as he had hoped. The gardener, worried by the Ranger's silence, repeated his question. "It was a Morgul Blade, Sam," Strider answered, his raspy voice devoid of all emotion. "A dark weapon of the Nazgul, forged by the W-Witch King of Angmar himself, in the fires," he paused here, unable to swallow his groan of pain, "of Minas Morgul." Lifting the cursed knife from the ground, the Hobbits watched in horror as it disintegrated before their eyes.

"Strider," Frodo asked carefully, his brilliant blues eyes widening in fear. "That was no ordinary blade. What will happen to you?" The Ranger dropped his hooded eyes to the ground as he decided how best to answer the question.

_I will pass into the Shadow-realm, Frodo,_ Strider thought miserably, _and become no better than the wretched monsters that hunt you_. No, he could bring himself to utter these words aloud; both for their sake and his. Instead, he chose a liberal, "Nothing, for the moment. Do not trouble yourself Master Hobbits, for I am fine."

He had not used the word 'fine' in many years, for very few could not instantly see past this lie. To the Ranger, the word 'fine' meant something along the lines of 'I am going to die', and could drain the colour from his _Ada_'s face faster than a naked Erestor doing a tap dance. Still, it seemed to satisfy the Hobbits, seeing as their stiff shoulders suddenly relaxed. At once, the four Halflings began babbling about the Nazgul, more as a reaction to the waning fear than from anything truly astounding to report. Strider barely listened, but managed to nod in all the appropriate places as they described the battle they had witnessed.

"… and then, Frodo dropped his sword!" Pippin stated matter-of-factly, causing the Ringbearer to flush in a mixture of apology and embarrassment. _Yes, I noticed that one too_, Strider thought grimly, mentally requesting that his brothers instruct the Hobbits in self-defense should the four friends survive the six day journey to Rivendell.

_Now that was a bleak thought Ranger_, Strider inwardly chastised himself, even as his chest throbbed in reminder to his current predicament. From the objective perspective of a healer, Strider guessed that he had approximately five days left before he fell completely into darkness. From the subjective perspective of an injured human faced with a very miserable fate, he prayed he could last the extra day.

"We cannot tarry any longer," Strider announced coolly, forcing himself from his knees. His injury wailed in protestation, but the Ranger made a conscious effort to ignore it. There were many other urgent matters to be concerned with at the moment; nine of them, to be precise. "The dark servants of Sauron will return, and I would like to have many leagues between us when they do," he added as incentive. Rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, he shakily stepped forward, but managed to regain his balance before he crashed back to the earth which he had recently become very acquainted with. Wrapping his thick cloak around his shoulders, he coaxed Sam, Merry and Pippin to their extremely large but tired feet.

As he went to reach for Frodo's hand, their eyes met. Large, blue orbs scrutinized gray, and Strider felt as though the Lady Galadriel herself was poking about in his mind. _He knows_, Strider realized, as the Ringbearer's eyes narrowed slightly in distrust. _Damned observant Hobbits, _he grumbled good-naturedly, and the expressive gaze turned to regard him expectantly. Strider tilted his head stubbornly, but he was still unable to tear his eyes from the Halfling. "On your feet Frodo," he whispered encouragingly, finally succeeding in breaking the spell.

Frodo's eyes left the Ranger's face as he was pulled upwards. "You are not as well as you seem- or as well as you'd have us believe," the Ringbearer hissed as his three companions grappled with the supplies. Strider ground his teeth in annoyance, but did not deny the accusation.

"It is beyond any of us, Frodo, but it will not stop you from reaching Rivendell," Strider replied quietly, proud that his voice did not falter. As to prove his point, he picked up his fallen sword, and sheathed the blade in a fluid motion. The make-shift torch, which had burned down to embers, he left on the stone. "Only in Imladris, will the Ring be safe."

"You would see us to Rivendell, even at the expense of your own… existence?" Frodo asked softly.

Strider noticed uneasily how the Halfling purposefully avoided using the word 'life'. "If need be," he agreed shortly, and walked into the darkness. Each step pained him, but he would do nothing to fuel the attentive Halfling's suspicions. He was determined to lead his charges to the ford of the Bruinen, at the very least. Perhaps by then, one of the Elves of Rivendell would have been alerted and dispatched to see the Hobbits safely to the Last Homely House.

Frodo watched the Ranger disappear down a set of stone steps, unsure if the swaying motions were a result of the human's condition or the uneven staircase. Narrowing his eyes as Strider nearly fell forward, the Hobbit's gaze filled with a mixture of worry and distrust. In the few weeks that he had known the Dunadan, the mysterious human had never given the Halflings any reason to fear him. However, the Ringbearer knew something was off now; and he was growing more and more suspicious the more Strider attempted (albeit poorly) to conceal whatever it was that was ailing him. As the man's shaggy brown head disappeared from view, Frodo vowed that he would watch the Ranger very closely in the days to come.

:O:

Ducking safely out of sight behind one of the larger boulders, Strider allowed himself a agonized gasp. The stairs had been torture, and he had nearly pitched down them to his doom. However, now that he was safely at the bottom, his could finally see to the wound which would undoubtedly be a hindrance on what was left of his journey. Peeling back layers of both leather and cotton until his chest was bare, the Ranger examined the injury critically.

His skin was clammy and a corpse-like white, especially surrounding the deep puncture. Black blood oozed from the opening, thick, sticky and very unsettling. The tainted veins, especially visible beneath the chalky skin, had already begun to stretch towards his chest and carry the deadly toxin throughout his body. Strider inhaled one shaky breath, before reaching for his green under tunic. In swift motions, he tore the fabric into long strips, which he immediately used to blot the excess blood.

Once the area was relatively clean, he used another strip of cloth to bind his shoulder with the practiced motions of a healer. It was incredibly tight, both to alleviate the pain and to restrict the blood flow. The shard of the Morgul Blade was buried deep, could not be located, and therefore could be not removed; so, he would just have to make do and persevere. Oh, but what he wouldn't give for a few leaves of Athelas to boil!

"Mr. Strider?" he heard the panicked voice of Sam call from above. The Hobbits must have finally packed up the camp. Quickly, he shoved what was salvageable of the under tunic into the pocket of his cloak for future use, and hurriedly dressed himself in a simple tunic and leather over-coat. Rebelting his sword to his waist, Strider allowed himself one last shiver, before pushing the agony to the back of his mind.

"Over here, Sam!" he called back, and he was rewarded by the sounds of four pairs of Hobbit feet thumping down the stairs. The hesitant pounding of hooves also indicated that the loyal pony, Bill, was cautiously allowing himself to be lead by Sam. The Halflings looked decidedly frazzled as they attempted to navigate the dark steps without tripping, and the Ranger couldn't help but hope that they were so focused on themselves that they wouldn't spare him a second thought.

"We thought we'd lost you there for a moment, and we grew worried," Sam commented meekly, effectively snuffing out Strider's hopes. However, the Ranger smiled warmly at his companions' concern, although his eyes remained troubled. The Hobbits were such kind-hearted folk; he would never forgive himself if he brought them any harm. _You haven't lost me Sam,_ he thought determinedly, as they began their march to the Bruinen Ford. _At least, not yet_.

.End of Chapter One.

**In Parting**: This chapter doesn't accomplish much, but is necessary to set some things up. Next time: More suspicious Hobbits and tempers flare.


End file.
